


If I Lose It (Don't You Lose Me)

by rocketmeaway



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Angst, Grief/Mourning, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-10
Updated: 2012-08-10
Packaged: 2017-11-11 19:57:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,310
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/482317
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rocketmeaway/pseuds/rocketmeaway
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Derek tries to deal with the death of his family, his guilt, and distrust. Stiles is there to help.</p>
            </blockquote>





	If I Lose It (Don't You Lose Me)

**Author's Note:**

> Title of this work is from the song If I Lose It by Charlie Simpson.

Derek is lost. So lost. He feels as if the whole world has slowed in its rotation; as if gravity doesn’t work quite as well as it did. The fire happened three days ago exactly, and he’s been floating through each day expressionless and numb. If it feels like a nightmare, then it must be, right?

Laura is eighteen, so everything has fallen to her. As soon as it happened, she’d dragged Derek to the outskirts of town, to some old, abandoned warehouses. Derek can see that being an Alpha is rough on her. She’s far too young, and it was thrust upon her far too abruptly, but it’s her cross to bear and she’s been doing her best. She’s ensured that she is now Derek’s legal guardian, and she’s started in on the financial side of things. Everyone in the family had something to leave behind. He’s not sure how she’s doing it. He thinks it’s merely force of will, because she _has_ to. He happy it’s her, though. She’s better equipped to handle it. He’s barely able to function.

Derek finally snaps on an evening when Laura isn’t there. There’s an old, decrepit bathroom in the building they’ve been living in, and inside is a stained and dirty mirror. He’s caught his reflection in it, face warped and distorted by the stains and the age, and has been staring at himself for a good five minutes. His skin is sallow, dusted by scruff he hasn’t bothered to shave, and there are dark bruises under his eyes. His eyes look glazed and distant.

 _Murderer,_ the reflection hisses at him. _You did this to them. This is all your fault._

He’s started shaking at that point, and it’s sharp and electric through his veins. He hasn’t felt anything in days, so it’s like a lightning strike. His breaths start to come in shorter, more rapid bursts, and the face in the mirror _moves,_ opens its mouth and talks to him, even though he can feel his own is immobile.

 _You may as well have set that fire yourself. You were the trail of gasoline that led her right to the front door,_ it taunts, and his shaking gets worse. _How does it feel knowing that you murdered your entire family, Derek?_

Before he knows it, his fist has balled up and hits the mirror with a sickening _crunch._ The glass shatters into a million multi-faceted pieces, raining down around him, and his knuckles are assaulted by searing pain. And it’s glorious. It’s glorious because he finally feels the pain he’s supposed to be feeling. He gasps and stumbles backwards, relishing it, and knows it won’t heal until he picks out the shards buried in his skin. His chest heaves again, desperately sucking air in as his lungs seize up. He’s choking, acidic bile rising in the back of his throat, and that’s when he feels the burn behind his eyes as the tears try to claw their way to the surface.

His voice is rough and raw as he lets out an agonized roar; he hasn’t spoken since the fire, and he can still taste and feel the burn of the smoke. His scream makes it hurt worse, which is good. He wants the pain. He deserves it. He’s the one who deserves to be dead. He barrels his way out of the bathroom, ripping the door off its rusty hinges and throwing it against the nearest wall, where it splinters into pieces and falls to the floor.

Derek goes on a rampage, then. Everything he can get his hands on is thrown at the walls; old chairs, scrap metal, and old bits of wood. He rips exposed pipes out of the walls and bends them and then he moves to their sleeping area, unsheathing his claws and ripping sleeping bags, blankets and pillows to shreds until clouds of feathers float up into the air.

He doesn’t know how long it goes on, but the place is completely destroyed when Laura shows up. He’s moved on to punching holes in the rotted wooden walls, splinters joining the glass and making the blood run hotter and stickier down the back of his hand and wrist. He can barely hear her yells; it’s like his ears are stuffed with cotton, or as if she’s far away. But she’s next to him, claws digging into his shoulder to get his attention. He turns with a snarl and then quails at her bared fangs and red eyes.

She drags him out of the warehouse forcefully, and he stumbles to his knees outside, panting harshly. “With me,” she barks, shifting further and dropping to all fours. His head is still all over the place, still a mess, but he knows to obey an Alpha’s orders. It’s primal and ingrained. He shifts too, and they take off into the nearby forest.

He knows what she’s doing, then. She’s running him into the ground and wearing him out. Every time it seems like he might be slowing, she circles around and snaps at his heels. He needs this, though. He needs to run away from it all, even if it’s only for a little while, and so does Laura. He loses himself in it, breathing in the familiar scents of the trees surrounding them, the dead, damp leaves under his paws, and the various animals scurrying away or hiding in fear as they pass. He doesn’t go after any of them, not this time.

They must run for nearly an hour until they come upon a clearing, where the half moon and stars can be seen shining brightly in the sky. He collapses, then, and Laura lets him. He’s shaking again and dragging in ragged gulps of air as she circles him and watches. After another few moments, the first sob wrenches its way out of him, and that’s when she shifts back to her human self and pulls him into her arms.

Laura doesn’t say anything; she doesn’t even shush him. She simply eases him down onto his side in the leaves, and curls herself into him, arms secure around his chest as he lets the sobs wrack his body. She presses her nose into his dark hair and sheds a few tears of her own. It takes a while, but he finally exhausts himself. She doesn’t move, just closes her eyes as well as the smell of sleep engulfs him. They stay exactly as they are until the sun rises, and when he wakes, she stands and takes his hand in hers, and they decide it’s time to leave Beacon Hills behind.

***

Derek is twenty-one, and he and Laura have been living in New York for a couple of years. This is the first time he’s come back to Beacon Hills with her. She comes once or twice a year to see their uncle Peter. She feels it’s their duty, even though he’s a vegetable. It always hurt too much for Derek; he has too much pain and guilt inside him still, but this time he’s giving it a shot.

It does hurt a little bit when they drive into the town; even Laura looks a little bit uncomfortable as the familiar scents and sights hit them. It brings up a lot of repressed memories that Derek would prefer to keep buried, but the wave of nostalgia is impossible to keep at bay. Something else does capture his attention, though. They pass the old Beacon Hills church; the one with a large cemetery behind it, and get stuck at a stoplight. Derek notices there’s a funeral in process. He’s not sure why he does it, but he leans over to murmur something in Laura’s ear, and then gets out of the car. He’ll meet her later.

As she drives away, he walks around the outskirts of the cemetery, a morbid curiosity filling him. There aren’t that many people there. He tunes in from a distance, and catches the Pastor mention the name ‘Stilinski’. It’s familiar. There was a Stilinski on the police force who was there the day the fire happened; he remembers the man had a small, bright eyed boy in the back of his police cruiser, nose pressing against the glass and brown eyes wide as he watched his father ask Derek questions he wasn’t emotionally capable of answering.

He feels sick for a moment, but then catches sight of the officer and his boy standing next to him. He’s gotten much bigger. He’s already nearly as tall as his father in his lanky, adolescent stage, and his face is sallow and expressionless. Derek remembers seeing that face in a mirror, once. The boy is staring at the ground, obviously tuning the pastor out as he speaks. When the time comes for others to share their thoughts and feelings; to say their goodbyes, he startles out of his trance-like state, looking up. He gives the smallest shake of his head, then, and steps forward to place a single yellow tulip on top of the casket before stepping back into his place next to his father. Derek feels nauseous all over again as he realizes the one who died was Mrs. Stilinski.

People begin to file away after the casket is lowered and they throw handfuls of the freshly dug up earth on top of it. The boy is the one who lingers. It almost looks like he’s frozen in place; like he can’t move. His father waits for him at the car, and Derek stays still, leaning against a tree at the edge of the cemetery. It must be a good ten minutes before the boy seems to come back to life, drawing in a shaky breath and taking a step back. Derek listens closely as his lips move, and he hears his voice, quiet and cracking over the words.

_“Bye, mom.”_

He turns to walk away, but pauses with a frown. He looks up, then, and notices Derek. His frown deepens for a moment when Derek meets his gaze instead of looking away. He isn’t sure what it is in his expression, but Stilinski’s eyebrows pull together quizzically before his face relaxes again, and he simply nods. He nods, like he understands. Derek’s breath hitches a little and his jaw clenches, and he stands stock still until the boy finally turns to leave.

Derek lingers for another hour or so, watching as they fill the grave. When it’s finished, he leans down to pick a few peonies off of the bush next to him. He walks over to the grave and lays them there. He knows her favorite flower was a tulip, but at least the peonies were yellow.

***

Derek is twenty-four now; almost twenty-five, and the Stilinski boy, _Stiles_ , has dug his way under Derek’s skin. So much has happened. He’s lost Laura, and Peter as well. A single bite from Peter which turned Stiles’ best friend is what brought them crashing together. It had been all tooth and nail at first; hatred and distrust. Even so, for some reason, they’ve always been there for each other, because deep below the surface they knew how alike they were. It took a long time to dig that up.

Now, since that subject has been broached, things have blossomed faster than Derek could have anticipated. Things are still rough, and there are still a lot of things to work on, but it’s hard to think about that when Stiles’ scent and heat are engulfing him. Stiles’ lips are soft but slightly chapped pressed against his own; sweet and slightly swollen from the kissing. He can’t stop his breath from hitching when hands push up his shirt to smooth over his naked skin, and Stiles’ fingers seem to leave behind a trail of heat in their wake, making him burn hotter.

The heat makes him nervous at first. The burn brings to mind bad connotations, but Stiles seems to read his mind, and simply clutches him tighter as he moves his lips to explore Derek’s neck. The dampness of his tongue and kisses cools Derek’s skin just a little bit, and that’s when Derek moves towards Stiles’ bed and presses him down into it. Derek’s fingers move for the clasp on Stiles’ jeans, and he shudders, making Derek pause.

It takes a small, reassuring smile and nod of encouragement to keep him going. His fingers are still fumbling and uncertain. He remembers what this was like for him at Stiles’ age with Kate, and it makes him want to stop everything and pull away. Again, though, Stiles can read him like he’s his favorite book. Fingers curl around Derek’s bicep and he looks up to meet Stiles’ gaze. His brown eyes are bright and eager; brighter than Derek’s ever seen them.  
  
  
“I’m sure,” Stiles murmurs, and Derek’s done for.

When he presses into Stiles, both of them releasing shaky gasps and clinging to each other, Derek feels grounded for the first time in years. He’s no longer floating through life aimlessly; he’s tethered, and this is real, this is solid; this young man clutching at him, blunt nails digging crescents into his skin, is pulling him back down into the world where emotions such as trust and love are safe again. It’s still terrifying after so many years of fighting this exactly, but Stiles has him trapped. Stiles, he finally knows and sees, won’t cut that lifeline and let him float away again.

The entire situation is still incredibly and horrifically reminiscent, and as he nears his climax, his eyes squeeze shut. But Stiles reaches up, fingers tangling in the hair at the nape of his neck, and green eyes flutter back open.

“Stay with me,” Stiles manages, voice cracking as their eyes lock. “Don’t go.”

They melt and meld together, and he stays.


End file.
